Da
Hongmen Market's facade looks like a sports arena, with white concrete spanning
a whole city block. Outside, fruit
vendors stand silently by their carts of mangosteen, cherries, bananas, and
apples. Crowds of people mill
about in every direction, slapping against the transparent plastic strips that
cover the entrance. Da Hongmen
does not seem like a social mall: customers arrive with a specific purpose and
leave quickly with those items. The
market sells an overwhelming number of things. Since the market organizes its products by floor, people go
directly to the area that features the products they came to purchase.
On
each floor, the rows of stalls sell very similar items. On the second floor, specializing in
women's cotton shirts and skirts, the clothes blur as customers walk down the
aisles. Adjacent stalls often sell
the exact same garment style, including mistranslated English phrases,
misspelled designer brands, bright colors, sequins or rhinestones, or lace. The notable stores were those that
differed from the trend, selling clothing from Chinese ethnic groups or
specialty clothing like wedding dresses.
Since
the Da Hongmen stalls lack variety, merchants distinguish themselves through
quality and customer service rather than creative design. The owner does not always oversee the
stall, instead hiring a young woman to handle business transactions. These women sit on small stools,
wearing the clothes they sell. No one
tries to usher passersby into a stall. No stalls advertise limited discount sales or a new
commodity. Incentives do not seem
necessary in Da Hongmen Market.
After
asking the bored stall clerks if they were the owner, their boss would rush
over and tell us about slowing growth or new business plans. He--always the owner was a he--would
stand with his hands on his hips, nodding emphatically. If the owner were not at the market,
the young stall clerks would discuss the doldrums of market work more honestly.
"Would
you move somewhere else? What
would you do?" I asked.
Most
had never considered deviating from the paths set out for them by their family. If they had dreams, they did not care
to share them with an inquisitive foreigner.
"I'm
the third generation in this business," a fur merchant boasted, twirling
the silver rings on his fingers.
"I wouldn't change my life for anything." The front of his shop was composed
entirely of a large swath of shiny metal to attract customers. His store was on the top floor, the
level designated for expensive goods.
Location
seems to affect business almost as much as the actual products sold. With only one staircase in the market,
those stalls next to the stairs have a greater advantage over those stalls further
away. If a stall sells items that
do not match the floor's theme, the rent is cheaper. For example, on the third floor, which specializes in
trousers, I spoke with the owner of a stationery supplies stall. The owner could not find a space on the
first floor, but has been doing well regardless. Most of his customers are other shopkeepers because they
know where he is located.
Da
Hongmen Market vendors have their origins outside Beijing. Most are the second or even third
generation in that business, even though I expected Da Hongmen to be the
destination for first generation entrepreneurs hoping to pursue greater
opportunities outside of their rural hometowns. Some vendors spoke of their hometown with nostalgia, and chose
to send their children to school back there to expose them to their traditions,
rather than a school in Beijing.
But they all associated Beijing with prosperity and no one wanted to
leave the city permanently.
Beijing
carries a sense of hope for migrant workers, as if it were the city of
possibility. After learning about
the discrimination that migrant workers face in Beijing as strangers in their
own city, their positive connotations associated with Beijing perplexed
me. The overwhelming bustle of
people, schools churning out business majors like a factory, and factories
churning out smoke and nitrous oxides seem to counter that optimism.